Red Money | Page 3

the sort," cried Lady Garvington, angrily rising.
"Well, he meant it. I saw him looking at Agnes. And we know that Sir
Hubert is as jealous as Othello. Garvington is on guard I suppose,
and--"
"Will you hold your tongue?" whispered the mistress of the Manor
furiously, and she would have shaken Miss Greeby, but that she had
borrowed money from her and did not dare to incur her enmity. "Agnes
will hear you; she is looking this way; can't you see?"
"As if I cared," laughed Miss Greeby, pushing out her full lower lip in a
contemptuous manner. However, for reasons best known to herself, she
held her peace, although she would have scorned the idea that the hint
of her hostess made her do so.
Lady Garvington saw that her guests were all chattering with one
another, and that the men were getting ready to leave for the day's
shooting, so she went to discuss the dinner in the housekeeper's room.
But all the time she and the housekeeper were arguing what Lord
Garvington would like in the way of food, the worried woman was
reflecting on what Miss Greeby had said. When the menu was finally
settled--no easy task when it concerned the master of the house--Lady

Garvington sought out Mrs. Belgrove. That juvenile ancient was
sunning herself on the terrace, in the hope of renewing her waning
vitality, and, being alone, permitted herself to look old. She brisked up
with a kittenish purr when disturbed, and remarked that the Hengishire
air was like champagne. "My spirits are positively wild and wayward,"
said the would-be Hebe with a desperate attempt to be youthful.
"Ah, you haven't got the house to look after," sighed Lady Garvington,
with a weary look, and dropped into a basket chair to pour out her woes
to Mrs. Belgrove. That person was extremely discreet, as years of
society struggling had taught her the value of silence. Her discretion in
this respect brought her many confidences, and she was renowned for
giving advice which was never taken.
"What's the matter, my dear? You look a hundred," said Mrs. Belgrove,
putting up her lorgnette with a chuckle, as if she had made an original
observation. But she had not, for Lady Garvington always appeared
worn and weary, and sallow, and untidy. She was the kind of
absent-minded person who depended upon pins to hold her garments
together, and who would put on her tiara crookedly for a
drawing-room.
"Clara Greeby's a cat," said poor, worried Lady Garvington, hunting for
her pocket handkerchief, which was rarely to be found.
"Has she been making love to Garvington?"
"Pooh! No woman attracts Garvington unless she can cook, or knows
something about a kitchen range. I might as well have married a soup
tureen. I'm sure I don't know why I ever did marry him," lamented the
lady, staring at the changing foliage of the park trees. "He's a pauper
and a pig, my dear, although I wouldn't say so to every one. I wish my
mother hadn't insisted that I should attend cooking classes."
"What on earth has that to do with it?"
"To do with what?" asked Lady Garvington absentmindedly. "I don't
know what you're talking about, I'm sure. But mother knew that

Garvington was fond of a good dinner, and made me attend those
classes, so as to learn to talk about French dishes. We used to flirt about
soups and creams and haunches of venison, until he thought that I was
as greedy as he was. So he married me, and I've been attending to his
meals ever since. Why, even for our honeymoon we went to Mont St.
Michel. They make splendid omelettes there, and Garvington ate all the
time. Ugh!" and the poor lady shuddered.
Mrs. Belgrove saw that her companion was meandering, and would
never come to the point unless forced to face it, so she rapped her
knuckles with the lorgnette. "What about Clara Greeby?" she
demanded sharply.
"She's a cat!"
"Oh, we're all cats, mewing or spitting as the fit takes us," said Mrs.
Belgrove comfortably. "I can't see why cat should be a term of
opprobrium when applied to a woman. Cats are charmingly pretty
animals, and know what they want, also how to get it. Well, my dear?"
"I believe she was in love with Noel herself," ruminated Lady
Garvington.
"Who was in love? Come to the point, my dear Jane."
"Clara Greeby."
Mrs. Belgrove laughed. "Oh, that ancient history. Every one who was
anybody knew that Clara would have given her eyes--and very ugly
eyes they are--to have married Noel Lambert. I suppose you mean him?
Noel isn't a common name. Quite so. You mean him. Well, Clara
wanted to buy him. He hasn't any money, and as a